It was not until they had reached the railway station that Richard Duvall roused himself from the stupor in which he had sat ever since he and his wife had driven away from Dr. Hartmann's. When their baggage had been deposited on the platform, under the care of a solicitous porter, and the cabman had been paid and gone his way, Grace asked her husband concerning their destination. "Shall we go to Antwerp?" she said, listlessly. "We can get a steamer there, or cross to England." She awaited his reply without interest. It seemed to matter very little where they went, now.

Duvall turned to the waiting porter. "When is the next train for Paris?" he asked. The man answered at once, glancing at the clock in the waiting-room. "In forty minutes, monsieur. You will have time for rolls and coffee."

"Paris!" exclaimed Grace, in much surprise. "Why should we go to Paris, dear? I don't care about the things I left there. We can telegraph for them. Oh, Richard, I can't go back and face Monsieur Lefevre now." She looked eagerly at his face, but its expression told her nothing. "I must make my report to the Prefect," he answered. "It is my duty."

Over their simple breakfast he was uncommunicative. "Don't worry, dear," he said, once, when she had plied him with questions, attempted to change his decision by arguments. "I cannot afford to run away. Monsieur Lefevre has given me a duty to perform, and I must at least tell my story. After that, we can go to America, but not now."

She could get no more out of him, and with tears in her eyes, followed him to the compartment in the Paris train which the porter had secured for them. There were few people traveling at this early hour. They had the compartment to themselves. Duvall rolled himself in his overcoat and lay down upon one of the seats. "I am very tired, dear," he told her. "I have suffered a frightful strain. My eyes hurt so that I can scarcely see. I am sick for want of sleep. There is a hard task before me, when I get to Paris. I must have a little rest." He turned his face away from the light, and lay quiet, breathing heavily.

Grace sat huddled up in a corner of the opposite seat, watching him, a great tenderness in her eyes. After all, she thought, he was her husband, the man she loved, and if he had appeared to act the part of a traitor to his cause, it was only because she, by her weakness, her love for him, had forced him to do so. At the last moment he had thought of her—his one thought had been to save her from disgrace and dishonor. He had assumed the blame, for he had given up the snuff box of his own free will. Had he allowed her to do so, he could have preserved his own name, his own honor, clear of all accusation or stain. It made her love him doubly, that he had thus stepped into the breach at the last moment and taken upon himself the guilt which she knew belonged in reality upon her.

As she sat there, conscious only of the flying trees outside the car windows, the clicking of the wheels upon the rails, and the low breathing of her husband on the seat before her, her mind went forward into the future, and the prospect made her shudder. In Paris she knew what manner of welcome awaited them. Monsieur Lefevre would turn from them both, as he would not turn from the vilest criminal.

Their names would be held up to scorn, in official circles at least. If the public ever came to know of the affair, she knew they would have reason to fear for their very safety.

As to the results of her act, as to what the secret of the lost snuff box was, that made Hartmann declare its value to be priceless, she could not even guess. That it must have some diplomatic, some international significance, she fully believed, else why should Monsieur Lefevre have declared that the honor of France was involved? And if so—if the possession of the secret by Hartmann, and thus by the foreign country, whichever one it might be, of which he was probably an agent, did result in complications of a vast and terrible nature, involving possibly war, or loss of national honor and prestige, how could either she or her husband ever again hope to hold up their heads, to find any joy and happiness in life?

Of course, there was America, and home, but even there the secret would in time become known, and Richard would find that those who had been his friends in high places would turn from him, trusting in his honor, his integrity, no longer. Even, she realized, if the affair did not become known, at home, it would stand forever between them, a black and grinning shadow, destroying confidence, happiness, even love itself. She had failed him—failed her husband—done what he had forbidden her to do, and he had sworn to leave her, to turn from her forever, if she disobeyed him. Would he do this, she wondered? Or would he understand that what she had done, had been for his sake, for the sake of her love for him?

Presently she realized that the train was slackening its speed, and the houses which began to appear in increasing numbers outside the car windows told her that they were approaching a station. She looked at her railway folder and then consulted her watch. It was Manbenge, the point at which they left Belgium and entered France. The train drew noisily into the station, and was at once surrounded by the usual crowd of passengers, porters, railway and customs officials, and the like. Grace watched them idly, indifferently. Her only concern was that they should not wake her husband with their noisy chatter.

Presently she saw a small, white-haired figure approaching the compartment door. At first she paid no attention to the man, supposing him to be a belated passenger. Then she was struck with a sudden familiarity in his appearance. She started back in alarm as she saw that it was Dufrenne, and that he was making straight for the compartment in which she sat, his face stern and angry. Behind him she observed two gendarmes, walking with their characteristic jerky stride.

Dufrenne had been a mystery to her. Until their meeting in Dr. Hartmann's laboratory that morning, she had never seen him. She had felt, from his words, that he, too, was of Monsieur Lefevre's staff, a member of the secret police, but that he was no friend of Richard's or of hers, she very well knew. She drew back further into the dim corner of the compartment, hoping that he would not recognize her.

Her hopes, however, were in vain. Dufrenne threw open the door of the carriage, which had previously been unlocked by the guard, and followed by his men, entered the compartment. "Here is the fellow," he cried, angrily, pointing to Duvall. "Arrest him."

Grace sprang forward, and stood between the men and her husband, who slept on, unconscious of the noise about him. "No—no!" she cried, in a tense whisper. "Let him alone. You shall not touch him." In her desperation she drew from the bosom of her dress a small revolver which she had carried ever since she left Paris. "Keep away, I tell you. You shall not arrest my husband."

Dufrenne confronted her with an angry gesture. "You fool!" he cried. "Do you dare to disobey this?" He held before her eyes a silver ring, inlaid with gold, similar to the one she wore about her own neck. "I am a member of the secret police, as you know. This man is a traitor to his duty, and for that he shall be punished. Arrest him," he said again to his men.

Grace recoiled, and dropped the revolver she held to the floor. In all her dread of the future, this was something upon which she had not counted. Her husband arrested—possibly shot, or condemned to spend years in some frightful military prison. She thought of Devil's Island, where Dreyfus had been confined, and the horror of the situation overcame her. Unable to resist longer, she sank upon the seat and burst into tears.

The two gendarmes awakened Duvall roughly, and after informing him that he was a prisoner, sat grimly down on either side of him. Dufrenne took the seat beside Grace. The train had again begun to move—she realized that they were once more flying toward Paris.

At first Duvall, in his stupor of sleep, did not realize what had happened, but in a few moments he had grasped the situation. He did not seem greatly concerned at his arrest, and Grace, her first paroxysm of weeping having passed, looked at him in surprise. How brave he is! she thought. Once she caught his eyes, but he made no sign. Apparently he was resigned to his fate.

Dufrenne turned to her presently. "You, madame, are also under arrest," he remarked coldly.

"You have no right to do this thing," she exclaimed. "We have done the best we could."

"No!" cried the little old Frenchman, his bent shoulders straightening, his eyes flashing until he became a stern and vengeful figure. "No! You have not done the best you could. Brave men—and brave women, die at their posts of duty. You are cowards, both of you. Had I been in your place, do you think I would have given in—do you think I would have sold the honor of my country! Mon Dieu! It is incredible! I am a Frenchman, madame, and I have fought for France. I value my life as nothing, where her welfare is concerned. I would have died a thousand times, died as Frenchmen die, with 'Vive La France,' on my lips, before I would have uttered so much as a single word."

She made no reply to this. In his anger, the fragile old man seemed inspired with the very spirit of patriotism, his withered cheeks took on new color, his sunken eyes a new brightness. She felt ashamed—not for Richard, for he had spoken only when she had forced him to do so, but for herself. The guilt was hers. She was glad that she, too, was arrested, that she might have a chance to go before Monsieur Lefevre and take upon her shoulders the dishonor which she knew belonged there. Silent, she shrank back into her corner, not daring to look up.

"Monsieur Dufrenne," she heard Richard saying, quietly, "be so good as to remember that it was I, not my wife, who gave the snuff box to Hartmann. You have seen fit to place me under arrest. Very well, I will tell my story to Monsieur Lefevre and abide by his decision. But meanwhile, I beg that you will treat my wife with courtesy and respect. She has had a very trying and terrible experience and I do not wonder that she is unnerved. You may not know it, monsieur, but we were married but five days ago, and this—" he glanced about the compartment with a sad smile—"this, monsieur, is our honeymoon."

The Frenchman sank back, all his anger swept away. "It is pitiful, monsieur, pitiful," he said, quietly. "Yet in what I now do, I am but doing my duty." He turned to Grace. "Madame, I feel for you in your suffering. You acted through love. Of that I am sure. But there is a greater love than that of woman for man—the love of country. That is the only love I understand." He turned away and sat for a long while gazing out of the window.

In what seemed to Grace a very short time, they reached Paris, and here she and Richard were conducted to a taxicab and soon found themselves at the Prefecture.

Dufrenne left them, to announce his arrival to Monsieur Lefevre, and she and her husband sat in an anteroom, closely guarded, waiting until the time should arrive for them to be summoned before the Prefect.

The detective was still silent and preoccupied. He said little, but from the caressing way in which he placed his hand upon hers, bidding her cheer up, Grace knew that his love for her, at least, was left to her. "Oh, Richard," she said, softly, turning her face to his, "I am so sorry, so sorry! But I could not let you suffer, dear, for I love you—I love you."